NEW YORK
WORDS ROXY BOURDILLON, PHOTOS CREATIVE COMMONS, DYLAN CROSS/DRAGONFLY IMAGE PARTNERS, WARREN JAGGER
I have longed to go to New York ever since I was a little girl. And as thrilled as I am to finally be voyaging to the city of my gaydreams, all those years spent furiously fantasising mean it’s attained an almost mythical status in my head. In my mind at least, I’m the lezzier, chubbier, real-life Carrie Bradshaw – a shopaholic writer with an untameable mane and an embarrassingly enormous collection of vertiginous heels. I’ve been imagining strutting through Central Park, skinny latte and designer shopping bags in tow, for as long as I can remember. In fact, I’m so mad about Manhattan and bonkers for Yonkers that, just before my plane lands at JFK, I experience a momentary wobble. What if NYC doesn’t live up to my idealised, Hollywoodified version of it? Can it really be as exhilarating as I’ve built it up to be? The answer is a resounding hell yes. As it turns out, New York is, as advertised, absofucking- lutely fabulous.